A Look Back at Katrina

Eight years ago today, Katrina made her unwelcome appearance in New Orleans and along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, leaving unimaginable destruction in her wake. In some ways, it seems like a  lifetime ago, but my memories of the days leading up to the storm and the weeks after are as clear as if it happened yesterday. 

Katrina was a bizarre storm from the start. When she made landfall in Florida on Friday, August 26, we thought we were in the clear. It wasn't until later that night at a church function with the kids that I began to hear the buzz about the storm regrouping and changing direction. In the seven years we had lived in South Louisiana, I had evacuated for a few hurricanes and tropical storms, but none had ever amounted to much. I assumed this one would be no different. Brett was in Vegas for his fantasy football draft, and I didn't relish the idea of evacuating alone with an eight-year-old, a four-year-old, and two eighty-plus pound dogs, so I dismissed the idea of leaving pretty quickly. It wasn't until the next morning that a little fear began to set in. Kyndall was competing in a triathlon at UNO (which took a fairly substantial hit just two days later) and everyone at the race was talking about getting out of town. I was still in denial, but I decided that filling my gas tank couldn't hurt. My concern grew when I saw the lines of cars at the gas pumps, and later at the ATM. It appeared that the Northshore was getting out of Dodge, as well. I called Brett (who was not even aware that there was a storm!) and told him I was considering leaving. I did not want to evacuate. Not at all. I really tried to convince myself that tens of thousands of people were overreacting, but I knew that a responsible parent would ensure that her kids were safe, and I do try to play that role from time to time. My decision was made, and with the help of a good friend, I brought in the patio furniture, took down the basketball goal, and made sure there weren't any objects outside the house that could become projectiles. (I did, unfortunately, forget to turn the trampoline upside down, which led to its demise.) 

I packed a bag with three or four changes of clothes for each of us, threw in a few photo albums, and we set off for Beaumont, Texas, on Sunday morning. Thinking I was outsmarting the rest of Mandeville, I avoided my normal route and headed out of town by way of Madisonville. We "drove" for two hours before we got to the Tchefuncte River, less than five miles from our house! A woman walking down the street carrying a parrot got there before we did. To say that it was a frustrating and stressful drive would be like calling Katrina a little rain event. With bumper-to-bumper traffic and numerous pit stops, we made it to Beaumont in eight hours...twice the usual time for that drive. But we were there, and we were safe. I truly felt that I might have seen my house and my things for the last time. And I realized that of the three tops I packed for myself, two were black tank tops that looked exactly the same. Surely I could have done better than that!

In the midst of my travels with the kids, Brett discovered that he would not be able to fly back to New Orleans, and the seriousness of the situation became more apparent. He flew into Beaumont Sunday night, and we waited out the storm together. I remember staying up all night watching it approach and then make landfall around 6 a.m. It was spooky and surreal watching our little town being beaten up on national TV. We saw buildings ripped apart by hurricane force winds and Lake Pontchartrain surging into the city and over the seawall in Mandeville. Of course, it wasn't until hours later when the levees broke that the worst of the devastation in New Orleans occurred. We did not see many of those images until much later, since we had no way of watching TV during that time and were relying on radio for our information.

Brett and I started back toward Mandeville just twenty-four hours after the storm moved out. Armed with a chainsaw and bottled water, we headed east, stopping at every open gas station along the way in case gas became unavailable at some point. When we arrived in Mandeville, it looked more like a war zone than our sleepy little town. Many roads were impassable because of downed trees and power lines. Tornados had torn through our neighborhood, and we were only able to get to our house because neighbors who had stayed behind had cleared a path the width of a single car. Our house was surrounded by 100-foot pine trees, and I could not stop shaking as we worked our way to our house in the back of the neighborhood. We had seen some very severe damage, and I was imagining the worst. What we found were a dozen giant uprooted pine trees, none of which had landed on our house. Out of sheer relief, I cried. And then, completely overwhelmed by the whole situation, I cried some more. 

The next few days were a complete blur. While our damage was minimal compared to those who lost so much, we did have some roof damage, which had allowed water to leak in and stain some areas of our ceiling. Our fence was down, our trampoline was wrapped around a tree, and pine trees and debris littered the front and back yard. We spent the first two days working alone...Brett cutting the trees up into manageable pieces, while I hauled every single piece to the curb. It was miserably hot and humid. We heard nothing for two days but the constant buzz of chainsaws and the steady whir of helicopters flying overhead. While we were making progress with our cleanup, rescues were (and were not) being made in the city. With no electricity and the Causeway bridge closed, we had no way of knowing the horrors that were taking place just twenty-five miles away. 

Mandeville was basically a ghost town during those first few days. Only a handful of businesses were open, and options were few. We made a trip to a local hardware store for nails to repair the fence. Employees led us around the store using flashlights to find what we needed. Burger King was the only food we could find (I loathe Burger King), and they had a sign posted stating that they had hamburgers and water. That was it. Most of the other signs in town were of the "Looters Will Be Shot" variety. Like I said before...surreal. On our third and final day of yard cleanup, friends showed up with extra chainsaws and refreshments. This was my first experience with Delaware Punch, and eight years later, I think I'm still feeling the sugar buzz. :)

While we wrapped things up as much as we could in Mandeville, the kids remained in Texas. We enrolled them in school since we really had no idea how long it would be before power returned and our schools reopened. They were treated like royalty (or maybe refugees) at their temporary school, and everyone tried to make them feel at home. A woman we didn't know made them blankets. Children would bring them little gifts. One little boy even tried to give Griffen a dollar. People just wanted to do whatever they could to help, and we appreciated it, even if we didn't really lose anything at home. I spent three weeks in Texas, distracting myself with Janet Evanovich books and wondering when we could go home and whether or not life would ever be normal again. It was a strange and unsettling time. New Orleans remained paralyzed, and many people we knew who worked there were opting to take jobs in other cities. One thing we knew for certain was that it would take New Orleans a long time to return to "normal". The Northshore, on the other hand, was up and running within about a month. Things may not have been completely normal, but we were all making an effort, and we realized how lucky we were.

Mandeville today basically looks like it did eight years and one day ago. Some houses on the lakefront were destroyed and rebuilt. Some are just gone. But an outsider would see very little evidence of Katrina's visit. We gained lots of Southshore folks in those months after the storm, most of whom stayed around even after New Orleans began to rebuild. 

New Orleans still has many Katrina-shaped scars. Tourists may not see much evidence of her wrath, but one doesn't have to get far off the beaten path to find abandoned homes or those with that haunting x-code painted on them, indicating when and by whom the house was searched, and if any contamination or bodies were found inside. I still see those houses from time to time, and I shiver a little thinking about what really took place during those late-August/early-September days. 

As I reflect on Katrina eight years later, I realize how fortunate we were. We know many people who lost everything they owned. Outsiders will tell you that it's just stuff, but when it's your stuff and your sentimental treasures, it's tough. Every now and then when I hear about activity in the Gulf, I think about what I would pack if it happened again. With most of my pictures stored digitally now (heck, most of them are on Facebook!), the photo albums would not be as crucial. Still, there are definitely things that would break my heart if they were lost. Things that belonged to my mom. Some special items from when my kids were babies. A box of letters Brett wrote to me in college. Those are the real treasures. I wonder where all those things are? Looks like I just found today's project. 

*Most of my Katrina pics are missing, but I came across a few last year.

100-foot pine tree that landed on our neighbors' house. Sorry Lisa! 

This was the house behind ours. Not our trees on this one, though. The back was pretty thoroughly crushed .

Some of the pines broke in the wind, and some, like this one, were just completely uprooted. 

This was what the neighborhood looked like when we drove in.

I saw this New Orleans house this year at Mardi Gras. It's not hard to find abandoned homes
that were never demolished or rebuilt.

Strolling On Royal

Ask anyone from outside the area what they picture when they think of New Orleans, and chances are their answer will have something to do with crazy parties on Bourbon Street. I think this is unfortunate because, for me, Bourbon Street is the least interesting part of the city. Of course, when visiting New Orleans, you have to experience Bourbon, and it's not unlikely that you will leave there with a great story or two, but to really get a feel for the charm and culture of New Orleans, you have to branch out. 

My two favorite streets in the French Quarter are Chartres, where you can dine at K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen http://www.chefpaul.com/kpaul, browse in some cute boutiques, and catch a glimpse of St. Louis Cathedral, and Royal Street, an art and antique lover's paradise with amazing shops and some fantastic little street bands, including my favorite duo, Tanya and Dorise. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOJAAvLT5YI

I've spent a great deal of time on Royal, but until a few days ago, I had never experienced the Royal Street Stroll, an event that brings together wines from all over the world, some great New Orleans food, jazz music, and, of course, a parade...because nothing in New Orleans is complete without one. My friend Tiffoney and I decided to go, as our husbands were both occupied with other things. At $89 per ticket in advance, and $109 at the gate, it's not an inexpensive event, but the price of entry gets you a wine glass and all the wine samples and food you care to consume. 

We arrived when the event began at 5:30, with our tickets in hand. Although it did move quickly, the line for wristbands was incredibly long, which allowed some time for people-watching. One of my favorite things about New Orleans is the bizarre mix of people that you encounter when you're there, and I immediately noticed while waiting that this crowd was different...different in that we were all kind of the same, that is. While that is the norm on the Northshore where I live, it was a little surprising to me in a city where weird is, well, normal. I missed the weird.

Once we were in and wearing our official bracelets, we made our way down Royal, taking advantage of the fans we were given, which not only served as a map for food and beverage stops, but also helped cool us off on this warm, sticky, South Louisiana night. We sampled several wines and checked out some local art...we even met Michael Mondavi, who was pouring samples of his wine. The lines for wine were fairly short, however, the majority of the food lines were quite long...a dangerous combination. :) Because of this, we missed out on some of the more popular food items but still found some great stuff without enduring long waits.  

While the wine was good, and the food that we did consume was tasty, the highlight for this parade lover was the Krewe of Cork http://www.kreweofcork.com. Decked out in wine and grape costumes, they paraded alongside a jazz band, handing out wine-themed beads and other assorted goodies. The parade route was short, with members basically walking down Royal Street, then meandering back up again. We even heard one krewe member ask someone if he could have his beads back so he would have something to throw when they turned around! The parade was cute and low-key, and everyone in attendance seemed to enjoy the fun. 

The stroll was over at 8:30, although attendees could stick around for as long as they wanted to after it ended. There would just be no more "freebies." As someone who looks for any excuse to hang out in the city, I found this to be a very enjoyable way to spend a Thursday evening. I showed some restraint and didn't buy any artwork, and I was home early enough that my 4:30 a.m. alarm was no more painful than the roundhouse kick to the ribs it normally is on a Friday.  

While the Royal Street Stroll won't be back until next May, there are always plenty of things to do in this quaint and beautiful area of the Quarter. If you come to town, make sure you spend some time exploring the galleries and antique shops on Royal and getting to know some of the local artists. And don't worry...if you have a hankering for a hurricane, an offensive t-shirt, or bad karaoke, Bourbon Street will still be there when you're done.

Krewe of Corks

Tap dancing, banjo playing street performer. 

Post-Fest Blues

Ever get the holiday blues? You've wrapped up the Thanksgiving and Christmas festivities, and while there are exciting possibilities for the new year, there's that inevitable letdown. The "what now?" lull. I used to fall victim to this...then I moved to New Orleans. It's difficult to be too blue with King cakes filling every grocery store, bakery, and even some boutiques beginning the 6th of January, Mardi Gras parades rolling in February, and French Quarter Fest and Jazz Fest brightening our (sometimes rainy) days just a few weeks later. I come alive during the first few months of each year. Last Sunday evening, I stood in the front row at the Acura Stage, while the incredibly talented Trombone Shorty (go see him if you can!) brought the most wonderful time of the year to a close for me and thousands of other festers. And for me, it is now that the funk creeps in. The "now what?" begins. I start feeling a little blue...not navy or even royal, but at least a little aquamarine. Sky? Maybe baby blue. I try to cheer myself up with thoughts of crawfish and po-boy festivals, hanging out on Royal Street, crazy races, and other enjoyable events that are certain to take place. It is New Orleans, after all, and there's always something entertaining, if not completely bizarre, going on somewhere. But my two main events are over for the year, and yes, I'm a little sad. I've decided to focus on experiencing some things I haven't tried in my fifteen years here. Checking out some restaurants where I have yet to dine...and there are many. Grabbing my camera and checking out a crazy swamp or voodoo tour. Maybe even exploring a museum or two, although I'm not very museum-y. (Ask me how to see The Louvre in under 30 minutes.) I am sure I will discover some new gems in the city that I love, but for now I'm just going to spend a few days mourning the end of the season that brings me so much joy...those four months that make me absolutely certain I will never want to live anywhere else. I think it's time to go hunt for a meat pie or some crawfish bread. Or maybe there's a stray King cake out there somewhere. A little comfort food couldn't hurt, right? And hey, if I strike out, Fat Tuesday is just a short 300 days away. 

What I think is the most beautiful of all the Mardi Gras floats.

Fat Tuesday with my fellow parade lover...and boy, do I look tired!

Willie Nelson on a rainy day at Jazzfest...still sounded great at 80!

Trombone Shorty. He really puts on a fantastic show.

Ben Harper...one of my favorites.

Festin' in the Rain

When you live in South Louisiana in early May, your two weather choices are basically hot and sunny or rainy, which can turn into hot and sunny (and steamy) in an instant. We've been lucky the past few Jazzfests. I really only remember one rainy day in the three years prior to this one. Sunday, however, was a different story. I had told myself I would stay home and catch up on all the things I had ignored while I was gone all day Friday and Saturday if the forecast for rain turned out to be accurate. But the music called my name, and my 15-year-old and I donned our cute rain boots, threw some trash bags in my "festival bag" in case we chose to sit, grabbed some new rain ponchos from Walgreen's, and headed across the bridge. It was pouring when we arrived at the fairgrounds, so, forgoing fashion, we put on our yellow ponchos, even utilizing the very unattractive hoods, and headed in. The silver linings...no line at the gate and the very nice man who gave us his extra ticket, saving us $65.

The grounds were wet when we arrived...not as wet as they would be later in the day, but wet enough for us to give ourselves a good pat on the back for wearing our boots. I would guess that perhaps 10% of the crowd had on boots. The rest were wearing sneakers, flip-flops, or (gasp) nothing at all on their feet! Truthfully, if you're wearing flip-flops, you may as well just go barefoot, and most flip-flop wearers ended up that way, with shoes sunk so deeply into the mud that they could hardly lift their feet.

We did have some sun during the middle of the day, but the rains returned just as Dave Matthews began playing. It wasn't a rain for sissies, and it seemed to gain momentum each time he sang a hit song. The amount of mud increased, but so did the fun. I won't lie and say we stayed until the end. We became a little cold, then a little miserable, then we just wanted to be home. We had a great rainy day, and we were glad we went, but washing off Jazzfest in a hot bath was pretty good too. 

It's supposed to rain Thursday and Friday of weekend #2. And even though Saturday and Sunday look like sunny days, the grounds are going to be a sloppy mess. Here are a few tips for those of you heading out this weekend. 

Rainy Fest Do's
Pack a poncho.
Bring trash bags or a tarp to sit on.
Bring a Ziploc bag for your cell phone
Don't forget about sunscreen...we only had two hours of sunshine in between rains, yet we both ended up with a mild sunburn.
Bring your sunglasses for the same reason.
Invest in some boots!  *Ladies, a cute pair will make your plastic poncho a little less awful.
If you opt to not wear boots, try to find a grassy spot early in the day so you're not standing barefoot in a mud pit.
Ignore the rain and enjoy some great music. You did pay $65, after all.

Rainy Fest Don'ts
Don't wear white!
Don't wring out your skirt in front of a crowd if it's very short and you have on a thong.  Or do if you want to...it's Jazzfest. :)
Don't bring your infant! (Seems like common sense, I know.)
Don't go in a port-o-potty barefoot! Just eew!
Don't bust out a giant umbrella when you're in the middle of a large crowd.
*On a related note, umbrella hats...not a good look. Don't buy one.
Don't assume the people around you will think kicking mud all over your friend is funny. It gets on us too, and we just think you're kind of a jerk.
Don't bail too early. Watching Dave Matthews play while thousands of people danced in sideways rain was really pretty darn fun.

*With regard to plastic bags over shoes...I'm not sure whether that's a do or a don't, but it reminds me of the kids who wore bread sacks over their shoes when I was in elementary school...and it makes me giggle a little. 

Happy Festing!

Jazzfest Magic In the Gospel Tent

Anyone who has ever been to Jazzfest, or likely any music festival, knows to not necessarily expect, but to hope for a "moment"...one of those times during a show or a song where something magical happens, the music takes you over, and you are forever changed in some small way. I've experienced a few of those in Jazzfests past, and there is really no way to describe them. A few that stand out for me are Simon and Garfunkel's "Cecilia" in 2010, when no one seemed to mind that Art Garfunkel was suffering from laryngitis and could barely get the notes out. We sang for him. We danced. It was a celebration. And no, it didn't hurt that a friend (shout out to Ginny) had given me a stageside pass and Tim Robbins was dancing completely uninhibitedly beside us. *I would like to include Pearl Jam's "Better Man" from the same year in the list, but I was alone, and with no one to say, "How awesome is this?!" to, it doesn't quite make the cut.* Another would be the Avett Brothers' "Head Full of Doubt" in 2011. Just the passion in their performance and those beautiful lyrics sucked me in in a way that made me forget I was in the midst of thousands of fans. They sang that song just for me. That's my story anyway. Last year's standout for me, hands down, was singing along to Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run" with roughly 65,000 of my closest friends. After staking out a spot with my friend Susan at 11:00 and literally not leaving this spot until Bruce ended his show at 7:30, we deserved a "moment" and boy, did we get one. I told myself at that time that it would be the highlight of my concert-going career, and likely, it will be.

While I realize that Jazzfest 2013 is only halfway through, I think I may have already experienced this year's "moment." This one didn't happen on one of the big stages. There were not tens of thousands of fans. It  didn't involve a big name artist. In fact, my daughter and I had never heard of The Selvy Singers until Sunday afternoon, and we only discovered them because we were going back to one of the jewelry artist's tents nearby. As we walked by the Gospel Tent, we heard a very soulful version of "Love Train" pouring out. We agreed to go in and listen to a song or two. While it was "Love Train" that brought us in, it was their incredibly powerful and joyful delivery that kept us there. The Selvys went on to sing a few more equally enjoyable songs, including the crowd-pleasing "We Are the World." But it was when they broke out into their finale,  "When the Saints Go Marching In", that the magic happened. Five of the most powerful voices I have ever heard belted out and completely owned this 19th century hymn that I've heard hundreds of times, but never in quite that way. Throw in some pretty impressive dance moves from some pretty plus-sized ladies, and a much-smaller-than-Springsteen-sized but equally enthusiastic crowd singing along, waving their hands, dancing, and just appreciating the moment, and poof...magic.

When the song ended, no one wanted to leave that tent. We wanted more. But anyone who has been to Jazzfest knows and appreciates that the acts always start on time and never run long. We knew the show was over, and honestly, anything after that point would probably have paled in comparison. My daughter and I left the Gospel Tent knowing that whatever we saw or heard after that point really wouldn't matter. We had gotten our money's worth from that one little song performed in a little tent on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The big acts at Jazzfest are great. They bring in the masses and lots of dollars for the festival and the city. But if you come to the Fest, don't be in such a hurry to camp out for the big names that you ignore the incredible talent on the little stages. You might miss out on your moment.

Jazzfest...It's Not Just the Music

Day 1 of Jazzfest is behind me, and according to my spouse, I was "giddy" walking in to the fairgrounds. This is truly my favorite time of year in New Orleans. Yes, even more so than Mardi Gras, which I can't get enough of. The music lover in me just can't resist seven days of musical greatness. We spent Day 1 with The Soul Rebels, a local brass band that puts on a great show every year, Gary Clark Jr., who was as amazing today as he was at Voodoo Fest a few months ago, and John Mayer, who sounded fantastic but only sang one of his big hits. And he changed it up so much I couldn't even sing along! (Maybe that was the point.) But the music is only one of many reasons to love Jazzfest. There's the food...world class Louisiana fare. Really who can resist a meat pie or crawfish bread? There are dozens of talented and mostly local artists who sell their unique and beautiful works from tents throughout the fairgrounds. Yes, I own some new art. And then there are the people, a crazy mix of locals and tourists, hippies and suburbanites, young and old, celebrities and regular folks. You name it, they're here. People watching actually may be my favorite part of the festival. You really see it all at Jazzfest...some things that make you laugh (the barefoot young man standing in the mud enjoying some of the greatest guitar playing I've ever heard live), some that make you cringe (the 50ish lady dancing to John Mayer...think Elaine from Seinfeld), some that make you throw up in your mouth a little (attention guys, some of you should really wear shirts at all times, or at least in public), and some things that make you say, man, I really can't imagine living anywhere else. Most of my Jazzfest experiences fall into that last category, and that is why I will be back there when the gates open today, listening to some amazing music, eating some terribly unhealthy but oh-so-delicious food, and sharing a love for New Orleans with thousands of people I will never see again. Come join me next year!

A New Orleanian at Heart

Sometimes I sit and think about my life and I wonder when it happened. When did I stop feeling like a Texan and begin to think of myself as a Louisianan...and more specifically a New Orleanian. Was it while I listened to a great little street band in the French Quarter? Or was it while I stood on St. Charles frantically waving my arms at strangers in hopes of catching plastic beads? Was it while I was eating red beans and rice on a Monday? Or the first time I saw a Mardi Gras Indian at Jazzfest? Did my first bite of king cake cause the transformation? I suspect that it happened gradually, but at some point it did happen. Despite spending the first twenty-eight years of my life as a Texan, it’s only the last sixteen that I’ve been “home.” I love New Orleans...plain and simple. The people. The music. The culture. The food. The architecture. Really, just all of it. Honestly, I came to Louisiana kicking and screaming, first to Shreveport (not my favorite part of the state...shhh), then to Mandeville, just across a very long bridge from New Orleans. Aside from a brief and very cold detour to Chicago, this has been my home for the last decade and a half. Both of my children were born here, and I’m not sure they even realize how lucky they are to be able to call someplace so unique home. 

My time in South Louisiana did not start out on the best foot. My first visit to New Orleans was in December of 1996. Traffic was crazy because of the high school football championships at the Superdome. I stepped in vomit as soon as I got to Bourbon Street. Oh, and I happened to be pregnant at the time. I distinctly remember uttering the words “I would never live here!” only to eat those very words a mere four months later when a promotion brought us south. At that time, I didn’t really embrace the culture. With a new baby, I stayed in my suburban home all day and made very few trips into “the city.” It wasn’t until we moved back from Chicago in 2000 that I jumped in with both feet. Once I allowed myself to really experience New Orleans, she stole my heart. I can’t seem to get enough of the Crescent City, and I look for any excuse to cross that 24-mile bridge. 

This blog will take a look at my favorite city from the perspective of a transplant who now considers herself a local. I hope to provide some insight into the city...maybe a few tips for those who plan to visit...and lots of pictures. I will be writing about things that I have experienced during my time here, and I hope to check some more things off my New Orleans bucket list and share them with you. And who knows...maybe you’ll be with me when I check off the ultimate bucket list entry and run into Lenny Kravitz in the Quarter. It will happen.:)